


Tantalus in Tartarus

by perdiccas



Category: Heroes - Fandom
Genre: Dom/sub, Dubious Consent, F/M, Femdom, Future Fic, Safer Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-08-22
Updated: 2009-08-22
Packaged: 2017-10-02 11:45:44
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,543
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5939
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/perdiccas/pseuds/perdiccas
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"He laughs, at her, at this, at this game she always wants to play but never wins."</p>
            </blockquote>





	Tantalus in Tartarus

Claire’s apartment is stark and sleek; the hardwood floors hurt his shins where he kneels. In this new life of harsh angles that she’s built around herself, her too-dark, slicked back hair doesn’t seem so laughably out of place. She leans down and into him, mouth not quite touching his; her full breasts sway towards him, nipples tight and dusky-pink in the chilly, autumn air. Sylar licks his lips, darts forward to catch one in his mouth but her hand fists in his hair, yanks hard and holds him back. She clicks her tongue and shakes a finger at him, “No.”

“You look good on your knees, Gabriel,” she purrs, smirking at him when he growls at that name he no longer considers his.

She wants to pretend the cheerleader in her is dead, but Sylar only has to turn his head to see the cracks in her façade: the wind chimes that tinkle prettily in the window, the gun on the dresser that betrays her nerves, those girlish curves she’ll keep even as this night becomes a long distant, minor footnote in their lives. So, he ignores that curl of anger in his chest, the twitching in his fingers at the urge to hurl her away, and he lets her play her petty power games, rake blunt nails through his hair.

Her panties are a virginal, cotton-white, damp at the gusset where her wetness is seeping through. He wants to think she’s chosen them for him, a little tease to get him harder, to make him think he is her first but Claire’s too steeped in anger for that, simply too filled with spite for sexy underwear and seduction. He thinks the more she tries to run from Noah, the more her father’s daughter she becomes.

He sits up on his knees, face a hair’s breadth from her cunt, nostrils flaring as he sniffs at the wet patch on her panties. He looks up at her; the undersides of her breasts partially obscure her face from view, but still he holds her gaze, cranes his neck to press a dry kiss to the soft skin of her lower belly. Sylar’s eyes flutter shut as she sighs, open again with a wicked smile as her bare foot presses to his crotch.

Claire rubs the arch of her foot against his fly, chuckles to herself when he thrusts into the caress and then, cruelly takes her foot away. His cheeks feel hot; his hair is mussed. Inside his jeans, his cock is throbbing, aching hard for want of being touched, from the threat she might yet kick him. But she’s flushed too, losing control with the pink blush that spreads over her chest and down.

And when she snaps, “Don’t move,” steps quickly away to rifle through a dresser drawer, he laughs, at her, at this, at this game she always wants to play but never wins.

She sits lightly on the edge of the bed, something concealed in her fist. She lets him walk forward on his knees, tug those pure white panties down the sun-kissed lines of her legs. Claire kicks them from around her ankles, spreads her legs with no preamble and he knows she wants to see him pant, so he does, his heavy breathing hot against her inner thighs. She frowns at him, thrown off guard by a victory too easy in the coming.

She slides one hand over her belly and down between her thighs, petite fingers sliding over smooth-shaven flesh, pretty manicured nails glistening with her wetness as she spreads her pussy for him. And in her other hand, Sylar sees her push a vibrator between her fingers, slim and metallic blue, rumbling quietly as she clicks it on.

“Pay attention, Gabe,” she orders, running the head over his lips until they tingle numbly, vibrations making his teeth click and his jaw fall wider. “You could learn a thing or two.”

He bristles at the accusation, at the implication he needs a lesson in how to pleasure her, snarls because she’s as transparent as the sodden panties she’s kicked across the room, a little, lost girl on a power trip, in a need of a daddy to put her in her place. But maybe he’s transparent too, because she’s laughing at his scowl, pushing the vibe into his mouth, pressing the jittering end against his tongue. And then, he has to smile, quirk an eyebrow, and give credit where credit’s due for the way she's gotten under his skin, but that doesn’t mean he can’t still turn this to his advantage; he ducks his head, sucks down the vibe and her fingers where she holds it, firm tongue pressing up as he sucks, slicking the metal and her skin alike.

Claire jabs the button with her thumb; the vibrator jumps in his mouth, shudders harder, shakes faster, clacking against his teeth but he only hollows his cheeks and sucks deeper, feeling the ticklish tingle of the toy against the ridges of the roof of his mouth. The vibe is slim, two fingers wide at most, and short, a bullet meant to tease her clit, with a cheap motor that he can tell, from sound alone, is close to burning out.

His eyes focus on her cunt, on the wetness that slicks her inner folds, on the swollen pinkness of her clit; her thighs quake and he sucks harder, swallowing down the salt of her skin. Sylar takes one hand and palms his dick, the heel of his hand rubbing hard against his fly. He groans around her fingers, flicks his tongue against her fingertips, and when she groans unconsciously in return, her free hand fists angrily in his hair, yanks her fingers free with a wet pop.

He grins, licks his lips and waits; her eyes flash defiantly and the hand in his hair pulls harder, his scalp stinging with the force, and Sylar knows that his submission means nothing to her when it’s so freely given. She huffs, infuriated at the way he likes to change rules, kneeling meekly between her legs when she wants him, needs him to fight. And now when she presses the spit-damp vibe to her cunt, her breath hitching with the first trembling touch against her clit, it lacks the scathing bite that she intended; he feels no shame in watching, but from the burning flush in her cheeks, perhaps she’s ashamed of being watched.

Sylar cocks his head and pops his fly, strokes his dick leisurely as he watches, willing to learn, after all, what she unintentionally has to teach. Her index and middle fingers splay her cunt wide; he runs a critical gaze between her legs, charts the folds of her thin, fragile flesh, feels his breath catch at her beauty there. And though she’s not the first woman he’s seen up close and so exposed, she seems unique, prefect in her imperfections and asymmetry, inner lips just barely more prominent on her left side than her right, right thigh trembling harder as her hips thrust shallowly from the bed. She’s organic, made up, unlike a watch, of parts that don’t quite seem to fit together, but she fascinates him all the same, in a way that clockwork, cogs and springs never could.

Claire circles the vibe around her clit, drags it down lower and dips the tip inside her pussy, her juices mixing with his spit to ease the slide. And now, that blush on her cheeks is spreading lower, down over her breasts and pert, tight nipples, the skin of her inner thighs flushed warm with the nearness of her orgasm. Claire fucks the vibe inside her shallowly, pulls back and puts two fingers in its place, stroking herself inside as she rubs furious circles with the toy around her clit. Sylar’s eyes dart from the quivering, pulsing flesh between her legs to her plump and parted mouth, sweat glistening on the curves of her neck, eyes squeezed shut so that all he can see is smudged dark liner and too-thick mascara.

With a deliberate flick of her thumb, Claire pushes the vibrator one speed higher, moaning in pleasure as she comes, toes curling and knees drawn up, legs spreading impossibly wider. Her fingers slither wetly from inside her, rest, glistening slick, on that stretch of skin between her pussy and her ass, as she keeps rubbing the vibe against her clit, pressing hard to prolong her climax, mouth frozen in a beauteous gasp. Slowly, slowly, she eases the pressure, touching herself more gingerly, now. She cycles lazily through the vibrator’s settings, dialling back the intensity as she comes down.

And when she finally shuts it off, pulls it from her quaking centre with a lopsided, bleary-eyed smirk shot in his direction, Sylar catches her by the wrist, licks her wetness from its length, and from her own skin. She shudders at the feel of his tongue, her hips canting forward of their own accord, and moving too quickly for her to stop him, he bows his head completely, presses his face to the heat of her pussy, clamps his lips around her clit and sucks.

He plunges two fingers roughly inside her, groans into her flesh as he feels her hymen break, the blood that smears his skin sucked back into her body, as it tries to heal. He fucks her with no real rhythm, filling her just because he can, and concentrates on laving her clit with his tongue. She tugs at his hair, her hips jerking back as she hisses at scratch of his stubble on her too-sensitive skin, but he ignores the wrenching pain in his neck, pins her hips in place with his mind and crushes his face tighter to her cunt.

And with the vibe having done most of the work, it doesn’t take much to get her to the edge again; he’s catalogued the ways she likes to touch herself, what makes her gasp and whimper and now he knows, intuitively, bone deep inside his core, that all he needs to do is suckle harder, curl his tongue just so. Her wetness is soaks his chin and cheeks as she pulls him closer, legs folding around his shoulders as her head falls back and he forces her to come again.

Claire falls back in a boneless, spread-eagled sprawl. Sylar stands, face wiped sloppily on the back of his hands as he shoves his jeans down around his thighs, a condom from his back pocket hastily rolled on. He flips her, telekinetically, onto her belly, drags her down the bed so that her feet are on that cold, hardwood floor and her elbows are braced against the mattress, the plump swell of her ass pushed up high into the air for him. She growls at him, still too sated to find words, but spitting mad at being arranged like a ragdoll for his pleasure.

He ignores the way she grumbles, the way she flinches as too much pleasure verges on the knife-edge of pain she cannot feel, and sheathes himself inside her in one rough thrust, her healed hymen tearing, again, around his girth. Claire pushes back against him instinctively, to keep her balance, the heels of her hands braced on the sheets, her legs arched on the tips of her toes. He folds himself over her, his chest pressed to the sweat-slick curve of her back, nuzzling his nose against that falsely dark hair, inhaling that same scent of roses she’s worn since she was in a high school. And underneath her hatred, her bile and her spite, she’s the same scared girl he tried to kill on her Homecoming night.

And, unbreakable as she is, he breaks her with every snap of his hips, a faint smudge of red staining the condom where her hymen rips anew. He fucks her roughly, grabs one breast in his palm, cups it as it swings pendulously from her chest and kneads her flesh, leaving bruises that only fade. Sylar sucks a hickey to her neck, laughs into her skin when she reaches back and claws at his hip in retaliation, long, red gouge marks healing as she pumps back with her hips and forces him to fuck her harder.

Sylar fumbles in the tangled sheets below, finds the slippery-slick vibe and turns it to the lowest setting, revels in her squeals for mercy as he presses down between her legs. He rolls it nimbly over her cunt, careful to avoid her clit, the threat alone enough to make her pussy clench decadently around his cock, without needing to be cruel. He slides it over the bare skin of her labia, down between the creases of her thighs and lower still to tease his dick, pressing the vibe to his balls, caught off guard when the steady buzz through his flesh makes him come with one final, stuttering thrust.

Under the weight of him, Claire collapses to the bed; Sylar finds the strength to worm a hand under her, hold the vibrator artlessly against her pussy lips and coax a final, weak orgasm from her, torturing her with that very thing she hoped to use to taunt him.

He pulls out, dick not quite soft, flexing his fingers, numbed from the jangle of the vibe in his grip. He slides off the condom with shaking hands, tosses it carelessly at the trashcan, not caring when it falls short, leaving an obscene stain on the parquet floor. Sylar pulls up his jeans, tucks his cock away as she groans, rolling languidly onto her back, glaring at him with narrowed eyes.

She pulls a sheet around herself, pads softly to the window, her hand closing ‘round the clinking flutes of the wind chime as she stares out at the darkened street below. Sylar glances at the gun still on the dresser, an outstretched arm and half a step from his grasp, bites down his shock and rising anger that she can flick her too-dark hair over her shoulder and turn her back on him, like he’s some whore she can dismiss with a sneer.

He lashes out with his mind, sweeping gun and knick-knacks in a cluttering, tumble of broken glass, stalks towards her, grabs her by the upper arm and yanks her around.

“What now, princess?” he growls, pressing threateningly up against her, the thin cotton clutched to her breast her only shield.

“Now, Gabriel,” she spits, looking past him. “It’s time you left.”

He clenches his fist in fury, goes to fling her across the room but as he swings his arm, he feels a dampening chill fall over him, an emptiness spreading out from his core as his senses are blunted. When he reaches for them, his powers aren't there. Sylar spins on his heel, panic and rage mingling chaotically in his chest and he sees, in the open doorway, the silent figure of the Haitian, a hand and taser extended towards him.

The prongs connect with Sylar's bare chest, electricity burning through him, body convulsing painfully as he crumples to the floor. And just before his vision goes black, he sees Claire standing over him, a smug smirk twisting her lips.


End file.
